SAINT  AUGUSTINE; 


AND  OTHER  SACRED  POEMS 
BY 

ELEANOR    C.    DONNELLY. 


WITH    A    PREFACE   BY 

RT.   REV.    MICHAEL   JOSEPH    O'FARRELL,    D.  D. 

BISHOP   OF   TRENTON,    NEW   JERSEY. 


PUBLISHED  AND  SOLD  TO  AID  IN  THE  ERECTION  AND  COMPLETION 

OF  THE 

.    CHURCH    OF    ST.    MONICA 

AT   ATLANTIC   CITY,    N.    J. 


COPYRIGHT.    It 


PRESS  OK 

I).  .1.    GALLAGHER    Jt    CO., 

12O   LIBRARY    STREET, 

PHILADELPHIA. 


rS 


TABLE  OK  CONTENTS. 


Preface,  by  Rt.  Rev.  Bishop  O'Farrell 7 

Proem, 1 1 

Conversion  of  St.  Augustine, 13 

The  Bishop's  Ring 18 

The  Chapel  of  St.  Nicholas  of  Tolentine,  at  Atlantic  City,  N.  J.  19 

Salve  et  Vale — Sonnets  addressed  to  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Neno,  D.D.  22 

St.  Christopher's  Burden, 23 

The  Angelus-bell  of  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart 25 

The  Vigil  of  Pride, 27 

Our  Blessed  Lady's  Shrines  and  Titles  in  the  Augustinian 

Order, 28 

The  Heart  of  St.  Clare  of  Montefalco, 32 

The  Humming-bird  at  the  Chapel  Door 33 

Our  Lady  of  Good  Counsel  at  Genazxano, 34 

My  God  and  my  All! 3S 

The  Trinity  in  the  Taper 40 

St.  Nicholas  and  the  Doves 41 

The  Things  of  God, 45 

The  Blessed  Rita's  Bees, 46 

Husband  of  her  of  whom  was  born  Jesu- 4S 

(i/iam  Dilecta, 49 

Alter  Oiristus 51 


759424 


Consecration, 53 

Made  Manifest, .       ...  54 

The  Angel  of  God's  Will 54 

A  Friar's  Prayer, 57 

Voluntas  Mea  in  Ea, , 58 

Love's  Tabernacle, 60 

A  Comforting  Paradox 61 

At  the  End, 61 

A  Midsummer  Moral, 62 

When,  Where,  and  How  ? 63 

What  doth  it  Profit  a  Man  ? 64 

Adauge  Nabis  Fidem, 66 

The  Sea  hath  its  Stars, 67 

In  Eternal  Peace, 68 

Our  Faith  our  Dearest  Treasure, 69 


DEDICATION 

TO 

ST.  MONICA,  THE  MOTHER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE, 

AND 

THE  MODEL  OF  ALL  CHRISTIAN  WIVES  AND  MOTHERS  : 

WHO  HAS  NOT  ONLY  GIVEN  TO  THE  WOMEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

A  NOBLE  EXAMPLE  OF  PATIENCE  AND  PENANCE, 

WORTHY  THEIR  IMITATION, 

BUT  HAS,  ALSO, 

PRESENTED  TO  THEM  AN  INCONTROVERTIBLE  PROOF 
THAT  THE  PERSEVERING  PRAYER  OF  A  BELIEVING  HEART 

CAN  OBTAIN  ALL  THINGS  FROM  GOD, — 
THESE  PAGES  ARE  HUMBLY  INSCRIBED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


PR  E  KA  C  E. 


REV.  M.  J.  O'FARRKLL,  D.  D.,  BISHOP  OF  TRENTON,  N.  J. 


JF  an  excuse  be  needed  for  this  little  visitor  to  your  library 
— behold  it !  in  the  little  room  it  requires ;  in  the  fact  that 
little  books  are  read,  when  tomes  only  excite  our  dread,  and 
are  pushed  aside  for  time,  that  never  comes. 

This  little  volume  brings  before  your  gaze  varied  poems 
written  at  various  times  ^  by  the  gifted  author;  and,  by  assuming 
the  garments  of  "the  art  preservative  of  all  arts,"  transmits  them 
to  others,  to  enjoy  their  richness  of  thought,  beauty  of  expression, 
and  warmth  of  devotion. 

Did  it  contain  nothing  more  than  the  poem  on  the  "CONVER 
SION  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE,"  it  would  be  doubly  welcome  in  this  year, 
which  marks  the  Fifteenth  Centenary  of  that  great  event  (387),  that 
gave  to  the  Church  the  Son  of  St.  Monica — the  prodigy  of  genius, 
the  light  of  Doctors,  the  hammer  of  heretics,  and  the  vindicator  of 
the  Divine  Word.  But  it  gives,  besides  this,  many  other  important 
facts  connected  with  the  AUGUSTINIAN  ORDER,  and  aids  one  of  the 


best  of  charities,  viz. :  the  erection  of  a  new  church,  in  honor  of 
St.  Monica  by  the  seashore — so  appropriate  to  remind  the  reader 
that  it  was  by  the  seashore  the  pious  mother  and  son  held  their 
last  conversation  on  earth,  and  together  discoursed  so  sweetly  on 
heavenly  things,  before  her  pure,  sorrow-tried  soul  quitting  its 
mortal  habitation,  and,  borne  on  the  wings  of  love,  sped  to  the 
God  of  all  Love. 

Amid  the  crumbling  of  thrones,  the  destruction  of  dynasties, 
and  the  changes  of  governments  generally,  it  will  call  the  reader's 
attention  to  the  fact  that  an  ORDER  founded  fifteen  hundred  years 
ago,  still  teaches  the  contempt  of  things  temporal,  and  points  out 
to  aspiring  souls,  the  road  that  leads  to  the  possession  of  joys 
eternal. 

Go  on  thy  way,  then,  little  messenger  of  good — do  thy  work 
in  secret  and  in  silence ;  and  may  the  God  who  hears  in  secret, 
grant  the  prayer  of  thy  author: — "Glory  to  God  on  high,  and 
peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good  will ! " 


'I'm-:  CONVERSION  OF  HOLY  FATHKK  Sr  ATGUSTINE. 


A  Little  Proem: 

TO   WHICH    THE   ATTENTION    OF    THE    GENERAL   READER   IS 
RESPECTFULLY    AND   EARNESTLY    DIRECTED   BY 

REV.  JOHN  JOSEPH  FEDIGAN,  O.S.A.,  RECTOR  OF  THE 
CHURCH  OF  ST.  NICHOLAS,  ATLANTIC  CITY,  N.  J. 

TO    WHOSE     ZEAL    AND    ENERGY    THE    ERECTION    OF    THE   NEW 

CHURCH  OF  ST.  MONICA  HAS  BEEN  INTRUSTED  BY 

HIS     VENERATED    BISHOP, 

RT.  REV.  MICHAEL  JOSEPH  O'FARRELL,  D.  D. 


"  I  purpose  to  build  a  temple  to  the  Lord,  my  God." — KINGS,  v.  5. 


'ANY  (good  souls!)  as  sweet  A'Kempis  paints, 

Run  here  and  there  to  where  the  martyred  saints 
Repose  in  reliquaries  rare  and  old, 
Their  bones  inwrapp'd  in  cloth  of  silk  and  gold  ; 
But  here  upon  our  altars,  He  doth  rest, 
The  Saint  of  saints,  the  Lamb  of  God  most  blest ! 
And  those  who  would  their  gold  and  treasure  spend 
To  visit  distant  shrines,  will  barely  lend 
Out  of  their  flowing  chests,  a  little  mite 
To  build  an  altar  to  the  Lord  of  light. 
Need  we  say  more  ?  Ah  !  if,  with  'bated  breath, 


We  stood  outside  the  House  at  Nazareth, 

And  thro'  the  windows,  framed  with  blossoms  wild, 

Saw  Mary,  Joseph,  and  the  Holy  Child — 

What  answer  could  we  make,  if  angels,  there 

Appearing,  should  command  us  to  repair 

And  beautify  the  little  crumbling  nest 

Where  Jesus  and  His  dear  ones  deigned  to  rest  ? 

Would  not  the  thought  of  Him  who  was  within, 

Make  any  hesitation  almost  sin  ? 

Would  not  the  longing  to  enjoy  His  charms, 

Open  our  hearts,  and  nerve  our  craven  arms  ? 

Ah  !  in  His  name  and  by  His  priest,  dear  friends, 

We  ask  the  means  to  work  these  sacred  ends ; 

And,  under  dear  ST.  MONICA,  we  place 

This  holy  temple  to  the  Lord  of  grace. 

Cast  then  your  bread  upon  the  waters  wide ; 

And  after  many  days,  upon  the  tide 

Of  prayer,  which  shall  go  forth  from  this  new  shrine, 

(Reared  by  your  efforts  to  the  Lamb  Divine), 

The  rosy  tide,  the  pure  and  healing  tide, 

Which  floweth  ever  from  Christ's  wounded  Side — 

It  shall  return,  all  fragrant  from  the  skies, 

Borne  on  the  silver  ships  of  Paradise  ; 

And  MONICA  and  AUSTIN,  then,  shall  be 

The  guardians  of  your  priceless  argosy ! 


The  Conversion  of  St.  Augustine. 

MANICH^EAN— caught  abreast  the  tide 
Of  strangest  fancies  ; — full  of  youth  and  pride  ; 
The  glow  and  glamor  of  the  senses  cast 
Over  the  present  and  the  guilty  past, — 
The  great  Augustine  of  immortal  fame, 
In  the  fourth  century,  to  Milan  came 
From  ancient  Rome  (at  whose  illustrious  bar, 
'Mid  myriad  lights,  he  shone  a  radiant  star): — 
Bringing  his  weight  of  fame  and  riches  free, 
With  restless  scorn,  to  northern  Lombardy. 

Honors,  and  wealth,  and  pleasures, — what  were  these 
To  him  but  vanity  of  vanities  ? 
To  him,  the  gifted  one,  whose  lips  had  drained 
Earth's  cup  of  joy,  till  naught  save  dregs  remained  ; 
Whose  master-mind,  inflamed  with  Passion's  fire, 
Thirsted  for  HEAVEN'S  peace  with  mad  desire  ; 
His  heart  so  tossed  by  doubt  and  dark  despair 
That,  like  a  brilliant  bubble  blown  in  air, 
Swept  to  and  fro  by  Error's  wind  accurs'd, 
It  threatened  oft,  in  bitter  pain,  to  burst. 


But,  all  the  while,  in  dim  Cathedral's  shade, 
His  mother,  Monica,  unceasing  prayed  ; 
Around  the  shrines  and  altars  daily  crept, 
Or,  at  the  feet  of  Ambrose,  kneeling,  wept ; 
Such  floods  of  tears  out-gushing  from  her  eyes, 
That  the  good  Saint  was  wont  to  say  :  "Arise ! 
And  courage  take  ;  a  soul  is  worth  its  cost ; 
— Son  of  such  sorrow  never  can  be  lost ! ' ' 

Thus  wearily,  the  heavy  days  went  by, 
And  nights  of  anguish  darkened  down  the  sky 
Till,  in  the  fulness  of  God's  time  and  power, 
There  rose  a  mighty  and  mysterious  hour, 
Crowned  with  a  purpose  so  sublime  and  grand, 
That  Pride  and  Passion  bowed  at  its  command ; 
And  every  icy  chain  of  doubt,  despair, 
Melted  beneath  its  sunshine,  warm  and  fair. 

Within  his  chamber,  on  that  day  of  days, 
Augustine  sat,  his  thoughts  a  troubled  maze. 
His  friend  Alypius  at  hand, — he  stirred 
The  precious  pages  of  God's  sacred  Word, — 
Searching  its  promises  and  warnings  dread 
For  hidden  comfort ;  then,  with  bended  head, 
Weighing  each  text,  and  striving  by  the  light 
Of  natural  reason  to  attain  the  right ; 
But  ever,  in  the  darkness  of  that  night, 
Growing  the  more  bewildered  as  he  read. 


At  last,  his  brain  on  fire  with  his  fears  : 
His  soul  a  sea  of  doubts,  his  eyes,  of  tears  : 
He  rushes  from  the  presence  of  his  friend, 
Into  a  garden  at  the  mansion's  end, 
And  there,  beneath  a  fig-tree,  on  the  ground, 
Casts  himself  down  in  misery  profound. 


What,  tho'  a  very  tempest  of  unrest 
Rages  within  that  young  and  fiery  breast  ? 
What,  tho'  the  demons,  (hosts  of  Hell  and  sin), 
Assail  his  purpose  with  their  horrid  din  ? 
So  still  and  peaceful  the  secluded  place, 
Upon  his  folded  arms,  he  flings  his  face, 
And  weeps,  and  weeps,  till  all  the  grasses  dream 
Of  summer  rains  and  swiftly  flowing  stream, — 
So  vast  the  floods  of  tears  that  o'er  them  flow, 
Bathing  their  buried  rootlets  far  below. 

Tears  of  a  proud  man's  grief  and  agony  ! — 
They  speak  a  struggle  terrible  to  see  ; 
And  O,  the  mighty  prayer,  which,  like  a  groan, 
Bursts  from  the  hapless  sinner  there,  alone. 
A  prayer  so  pitiful,  sincere,  and  strong, 
It  pierces  to  the  skies,  and  speeds  along 
To  fall  like  thunderbolt  or  flashing  sword, 
Under  the  very  feet  of  Christ  our  Lord  ! 


The  hour  hath  come, — the  hour  of  love,  ordained 
By  Him  who  reigns  and  hath  forever  reigned. 
— Above  that  prostrate  form,  in  robes  of  snow, 
With  harp  of  gold  and  gladsome  face  aglow, 
An  angel  spreads  his  shining  wings,  and  floats 
To  cheer  the  mourner  with  ecstatic  notes. 
For  lo  !  across  the  sunny  air  there  rings 
A  tender  voice,  which  "Tolle  lege  /  "  sings  ; 
Close  to  his  ear  so  musical,  so  mild, 
Like  clearest  accents  of  a  sinless  child, 
(Or  dulcet  strains  from  some  celestial  mead  :) 
"  Son  of  a  sainted  mother!  take  and  read  ! 
O  Tolle  lege  !  take,  O  take  and  read  ! ' ' 

What  shall  he  take  ?  What  shall  he  read  ? — A  light 

Begins  to  break  upon  Augustine's  night. 

Swift-springing  to  his  feet,  he  speeds  away 

Unto  his  room,  where,  on  a  lecturn,  lay 

The  Sacred  Word.     Alypius  was  gone  ; 

The  gloom  was  brilliant  with  the  rising  day  ! 

He  starts — he  trembles — timid  as  a  fawn, 

He  bids  the  leaves  fall  open  ; — some  blest  Hand 

Hath  turned  the  pages  to  one  passage  grand  ! 

Seizing  the  Book, — he  reads  it :  "  Put  ye  on 

The  Lord  Christ  Jesus  !" — Radiant  as  the  dawn, 

This  Robe  of  light !  Put  on  the  Christ?— Yet,  stay  ! 

The  text  is  incomplete.     He  reads  afresh. 


While  rays  of  rapture  round  the  lecturn  play; 
Reads  on — reads  on — brave  words,  which  boldly  say : 
11  And  make  no  more,  provision  for  the  flesh  !  " 

Down  on  his  knees,  he  falls  ;  the  scales  of  doubt 
Drop  from  his  eyes  ;  his  fond  arms  stretching  out 
To  God  and  Heaven, — young  Augustine  feels 
The  tides  of  passion  ebbing  as  he  kneels ; 
And  all  the  carnal  cravings,  born  of  clay, 
Rolling,  like  storm-clouds,  from  his  soul  away ! 

O  well  may  Monica  steal  softly  in, 

And  good  Alypius  the  prayers  begin 

To  Him  who  frees  the  sinner  from  his  sin  ! 

Blessing  the  pow'r  that  works  such  swift  release, 
His  heart  dissolved  in  tend'rest  joy  and  peace  ; 
His  mother's  arms  around  him — closely  pressed, 
Unto  his  grateful  friend's  impassioned  breast, — 
What  wonder,  that  the  new-born  Saint  should  feel 
The  saving  streams,  inspirit,  o'er  him  steal? 
What  wonder,  with  prophetic  sense  should  hear 
The  grand  Te  Deum  thrilling  on  his  ear  : 
And  rapturous  sing  :  "  Great  God  !  whom  we  adore, 
We  praise  and  bless  Thy  Name  forevermore !  " 


The  Bishop's  Ring. 

Most  respectfully  inscribed  to  RT.  REV.  MICHAEL  JOSEPH 
O'FARRELL,  D.  D.,  Bishop  of  Trenton,  N.  J. 


I. 

'IS  a  glorious,  glowing  amethyst, 

Set  round  with  diamonds  bright, 
With  never  a  flaw,  and  never  a  mist, 

To  dim  their  brilliant  light; 
And  the  hoop  of  gold  which  prisons  fair 

The  gems  in  its  shining  band, — 
Hath  found  its  place,  with  a  murmur'd  prayer, 

On  a  Bishop's  blessed  hand. 

II. 
Oh  !  pure  the  light  of  the  flashing  gems  ! 

Oh  !  rare  the  virgin  gold  ! 
Meet  for  the  priceless  diadems 

Of  peers  and  princes  bold ! 
But,  close  to  the  stones,  (whose  light  adorns 

That  type  of  a  deathless  Grief!) 
A  miniature  crown  of  golden  thorns 

Is  carved  in  bas-relief. 

III. 

The  faithful  gather  to  pray  and  sing 
At  feast  and  function  grand, — 


But,  whenever  they  kneel  to  kiss  the  ring, 
On  their  prelate's  gentle  hand  : — 

The  man  whose  palm  is  hard  with  toil, 
A  feeble  pressure  scorns, — 

And  the  Bishop  feels,  (with  a  tender  smile), 
The  prick  of  the  golden  thorns. 

IV. 

Ah  !  deep  in  his  heart,  he  prizes  them, 

Those  types  of  a  Woe  Supreme  ! 
The  virgin  gold  and  the  sparkling  gem, 

Beside  them,  soulless,  seem  ; 
For  they  speak  to  the  Bishop's  heart  and  mind 

Of  a  Love  from  Heav'n  come  down, 
Whose  will  Divine,  round  the  mitre  twined 

The  Master's  thorny  crown  ! 


The  Chapel  of  St.  Nicholas  of  Tolentine. 

ATLANTIC  CITY,  N.  J. 

MAVE  you  seen  this  little  Chapel 
Builded  near  Atlantic's  shore, 
Where  the  billows  bathe  and  dapple 
Silver  sands  forevermore  ? 

J9 


Summer  flowers  blooming  round  it, 
Close  beside  the  Rectory, — 

Tell  me,  have  you  sought  and  found  it, 
This  dear  Chapel  near  the  sea  ? 


Little  home  of  peace,  'tis  fragrant 
With  the  breath  of  flow'rs  divine; 

And  the  poorest,  barefoot  vagrant 
Hath  a  place  before  its  shrine. 


From  the  altar-lamp,  a-tremble, 
Starry  rays  of  splendor  fall 

On  the  Augustinian  symbols 
Painted  on  the  frescoed  wall. 


Painted  on  the  frescoed  ceiling, — 

Burning  Heart,  and  Book,  and  Scroll ; 

' '  Tolle  lege  /"  is  the  legend  : 

Take  and  read,  O  doubting  soul ! 


David  and  his  tuneful  lyre  ; 

Chalice,  Host,  and  priestly  Hand; 
Snow-white  Dove  with  wings  a-fire  ; 

Papal  Keys  and  Tiara  grand  ; 


All  on  polished  walls  and  ceiling 
Limned  in  living  colors  warm  ; 

And  above,  (instinct  with  feeling), 
St.  Augustine's  stately  form. 


Mighty  Hermit !  crown'd  with  merit, 
(While  a  golden  glory  drapes 

Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit, 
Little  cherubs'  winged  shapes, — ) 


O,  the  sweetness  of  the  hours 

When  before  thy  shrine  we  kneel  ! 

Subtile  scents  of  seaside  flowers 

Thro'  the  stained-glass  windows  steal. 


Borne  upon  the  breath  of  ocean, 
Blowing  from  the  beach  afar, 

Swift  the  soul  in  rapt  devotion, 
Springs  to  heaven's  gates  ajar ; 


Snatch'd  from  Sin's  corrupt  arena, — 
Heart  and  mind  absorbed  in  prayer,- 

NlCHOLAS    OF    TOLENTINO 

Gives  his  blessing  then  and  there  ! 


Salve  et  Vale  ! 

SONNETS  ADDRESSED  TO  MOST  REV.  DR.  PACIFICO  A.  NENO,  O.  S.  A. 

ON    HIS    DEPARTURE    FROM    THE    AuGUSTINIAN    COLLEGE   OP    ST.    THOMAS    OF 

VILLANOVA,  PENNA.,  FEBRUARY,   1881,  TO  ENTER  ON  THE  DUTIES  OF 

HIS  OFFICE   IN   THE   ETERNAL    ClTY,   AS    MoS  I    REVEREND 

FATHER-GENERAL  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE 

THROUGHOUT  THE  WORLD. 


I. 

SALVE! 

^LOSE  to  the  footstool  of  the  great  white  Throne, 
)     Bathed  in  the  beauteous  and  resplendent  light 

Which  floweth  from  the  Heart  of  Christ, — a  bright 
Celestial  shape,  Augustine  knelt  alone. 

And  thus  he  pleaded,  (bishop,  doctor,  son 

Of  sainted  Monica), — "  O  holy  One  ! 
Father  eternal !  from  this  radiant  crown, 

Which  Thy  sweet  mercy  hath  vouchsafed  to  me, — 
Upon  my  chosen  son,  I  pray,  shed  down 

A  glory  which,  forevermore,  shall  be 
A  foretaste  of  that  glory  lodged  in  Thee, 
Power  made  perfect  in  humility  ! " 

Smiling,  he  ceased  to  speak;  for  lo!  his  crown  had  shed 

Its  ancient  aureole  on  NENO'S  noble  head  ! 

II. 

VALE! 

f  DECADE  and  a  half  of  fruitful  years 
\     Have  come  and  gone,  since,  from  thy  convent-home, 
(A  willing  exile  from  thine  own  fair  Rome), 


We  welcomed  thee.  FRA  NENO. 

Smiles  and  tears, 
This  hour  evokes  ;  for,  while  across  the  sea, 

The  angels  speed  thee  to  thy  native  shore, 
We  smile,  rememb'ring  thy  blest  dignity, 

Yet  weep  to  think  thou  shalt  return  no  more. 
O  venerated  friend  !  take  with  thee  now, 

The  prayers  and  blessings  of  these  hearts  sincere  ; 
The  lustre  Rome  hath  shed  upon  thy  brow, 

Alone  can  gild  the  gloom  thou  leavest  here. 
Ah  !  may  that  shining  splendor,  Heaven's  emblem  be  ! 
Type  of  its  crown  reserved  for  thy  dear  sons  and  thee ! 


St.  Christopher's  Burden. 

[VER  the  river,  black  with  night, 

And  swollen  with  torrent  and  waterfall, 

The  giant,  Offero,  man  of  might, 
Carried  a  Child,  both  fair  and  small. 

Light  as  a  feather,  the  Baby  hung 

By  His  slender  hands,  from  the  shoulders  strong  ; 
It  seemed,  in  truth,  that  a  spirit  clung 

To  the  monster's  neck,  as  he  ploughed  along. 


But  lo  !  as  the  waters,  rising,  pour'd 

Their  misty  spray  on  that  brawny  breast,  - 

In  the  deepest  part  of  the  darksome  ford, 
The  Boy  on  .his  bearer,  firmer,  press' d. 

And,  little  by  little,  the  weight  increas'd, 
Till  the  great  feet  faltered  in  their  track  ; 

A  mountain  of  lead,  at  the  very  least, 

Seemed  bending  and  crushing  the  stalwart  back  ! 

' ' '  Tis  the  weight  of  the  world  ! " — he  groaned  in  fear; 

But  a  sweet  Voice  murmur' d  :   "Be  not  afraid  ! 
Not  the  weight  of  the  world  thou  carriest  here, 

But  HIM  by  whose  power  the  world  was  made  !  " 

"  Who  art  Thou,  Child  ?" — (as  the  sweat-drops  sprang 
From  his  corded  temples^ — the  giant  roared  ; 

And  clear,  thro"  the  night,  the  answer  rang, 
Like  a  silver  trump, — "  I  am  Christ  the  Lord  ! 

"And,  since  thou  hast  borne  me  from  shore  to  shore. 
And  thy  rest  and  thy  comfort  sacrific'd  ; — 

Behold  !  thou  art  Offero,  now,  no  more, 
But  brave  Christofero, — bearer  of  Christ  !  " 


Sweet  legend  !  cheering  the  weary  soul, 
As  it  fords  the  stream  of  a  fate  ill-starr'd  ; 

When  the  floods  in  their  fury,  fiercest,  roll, 
And  the  burden  of  Duty  presses  hard  : 

No  need  to  envy  the  blessed  load 

The  saint  thro'  the  raging  waters  bore  ; 
For,  bearing  a  burden  imposed  by  God, 
We  are  all  Saint  Christophers,  brave  and  broad, 
Carrying  Christ  to  the  heavenly  shore  ! 


The  Angelus-Bell 

OF  THE   CONVENT  OF  THE   SACRED   HEART   OF  JESUS, 
ATLANTIC    CITY,    N.   J. 


f  NDER  the  golden  cross  it  swings, 
P     Swings  and  rings  in  the  belfry  high  ; 
The  billows  bow  as  the  salt  breeze  flings 

The  thrice-told  tale  to  the  sea  and  sky : 
Angelus — Domini  ! — hear  it  swell, — 
'Tis  the  rhythmical  chime  of  the  convent-bell. 

The  convent  cradled  upon  the  sand, 

The  cote  of  the  doves  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


Whose  black  veils  flutter  along  the  strand, 

Or  in  and  out  of  the  chapel  dart. 
Ecce — ancilla — Domini  ! — 
The  silvery  strains  float  over  the  sea. 


Hidden,  below,  in  Its  altar-shrine, 

The  Sacred  Heart  of  the  Saviour  glows  ; 

Where  the  lilies  bloom ,  where  the  tapers  shine, 
He  rests  in  the  calm  of  His  meek  repose  ; 

El —  Verbum — caro— fact  um — esi  .'•  — 

Pulses  the  bell  in  the  belfry  blest. 


O  sweet,  sweet  chime  !  while  the  surging  tide 
Of  thoughtless  worldlings  throng  the  Walk, — 

The  spell  of  thy  music  seems  to  glide 

Like  a  seraph's  tone  through  their  careless  talk 

And  souls  are  lifted  from  earth  apart, 

By  the  Angelus-Bell  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


Long  may  thy  music  haunt  the  sea, — 

Long  may  thy  message  thrill  the  sands  : — 

The  waves  are  crooning  thy  melody 

As  they  lift  to  heav'n  their  long  white  hands,  - 

Turning  the  shells  'mid  the  drifting  weeds, 
Like  grave  nuns  telling  their  rosary-beads. 


The  white-veil'd  ships  in  the  morning  mist 
Salute  thy  song  thro'  the  haze  afar  ; 

The  sailors,  at  noon  and  eve,  shall  list 

For  the  voice  of  thy  praise  'neath  sun  or  star : 

Ave  Maria  ! — it  fills  the  air, — 

STAR  OF  THE  SEA  !  receive  our  prayer  ! 


The  Vigil  of  Pride. 

FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 


HEN  I  was  young  and  piously  severe, 

(Full  of  a  zeal  unripe  and  indiscreet), 
It  was  my  wont  to  rise  at  midnight  drear, 

And  read  and  pray  in  secret  self-conceit. 

n. 
One  night,  my  father,  turning  in  his  bed, 

Saw  me  upon  my  knees,  but  spake  no  word  ; 
"Behold  !  thy  other  children  sleep,"  I  said, 

"And  I,  alone,  awake  to  praise  the  Lord  ! " 

ni. 
"  Son  of  my  soul,"  the  holy  man  replied, 

"  Thou  art  no  better  than  thy  sleeping  brothers  ; 
'Twere  safer  far  to  sleep,  devoid  of  pride, 

Than  wake  to  note  with  scorn  the  faults  of  others. " 

27 


Our  Blessed  Lady's  Shrines  and  Titles  in  the 
Augustinian  Order. 

]|  ROUND  the  broad,  green  earth,  like  gems  of  light, 
\     Set  in  an  emerald  crown,  and  glittering  bright, — 
Jewels  of  heaven,  pearls  of  Paradise, 
Rubies,  and  diamonds,  sapphires  of  the  skies, — 
The  shrines  of  Mary,  pilgrim-homage,  woo, 
And  win  the  soul  to  pierce  the  ether  blue, 
Where,  fair  and  high,  the  fretted  spires  arise 
From  Augustinian  convents,  old  and  new. 


Mother  of  Jesus  !    Virgin  undefiled, 
Upon  whose  breast  reposed  the  Holy  Child ; 
The  Queen  of  Consolation,  long  foretold, 
Who  erst  the  grieving  Monica  consoled  ; 
Whose  love  supreme,  whose  miracles  sublime 
In  every  age,  in  every  realm  and  clime, 
The  spiritual  sons  of  Austin  great, 
Delight  to  praise,  to  bless,  to  venerate  ; 
Many  and  beauteous  are  the  titles  sweet 
These  loving  clients,  kneeling  at  thy  fee.., 
(Swelling  the  song  of  blissful  choirs  above, 
Who  burn  to  spread  thy  glory  and  thy  fame,)- 
In  tender  gratitude,  in  faith  and  love, 
Have  coupled,  Blessed  Lady,  with  thy  name  ! 


But,  first  and  foremost  'mid  those  titles  blest, 
One  appellation,  which  outshines  the  rest ; 
The  most  resplendent  and  unrivaled  gem 
That  sparkles  in  our  Mother's  diadem, — 
Is  this — (O  purer,  flesh  could  never  win  !) — 
MARY,  CONCEIVED  WITHOUT  THE  STAIN  OF  SIN  ! 

In  glad  succession,  fling  her  glories  free, — 
Our  Lady  of  St.  Joseph,  (praise  to  thee  !) 
Our  Lady  of  th'  Annunciation  meek, 
Madonna  of  the  blest  Nativity  ! 
(The  Maiden-Mother  with  her  blushing  cheek,) 
Queen  of  the  Crib,  where  saints  their  Saviour  see, 
And  of  the  Cross,  where  sinners,  pardon,  seek. 

Sweet  shape  !   in  many  a  convent  chapel  shrined, 
Our  Lady  of  Assumption,  lo  !  we  find  ; 
Even  at  Ispahan,  (whose  Persian  horde, 
Brave  Augustinians  won  to  Christ  the  Lord,) 
The  glowing  fervor  of  the  golden  East 
Wreathes  its  fair  lilies  round  Her  crowning  feast  ; 
And  Persian  fires  consume  in  perfumed  air, 
The  frankincense  of  oriental  prayer  ! 

Mother  of  Carmel  !    Lady  of  the  Snows  ! 
Queen  of  All  Saints  !    Madonna  of  Repose  ! 
The  pilgrims  of  the  earth,  by  land  or  sea, 
29 


O  Lady  of  the  Holy  Rosary  ! 

Can  ever  find  a  guide,  a  rest,  in  thee  ! 

For,  as  they  journey  thro'  Life's  solitudes, 

And  bear  the  burden  of  a  thousand  ills, 

Our  Lady  of  the  Plains,  the  Marsh,  the  Woods, 

Our  Lady  of  the  Mountains  and  the  Hills, 

Shall  ever  prove  the  Mistress  of  the  Road, 

And  ease  her  clients  of  their  weary  load. 

Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  Oak,  the  Elm, 
And  in  the  Grotto  where  the  Rocks  o'erwhelm 
The  soul  with  awe, — our  Lady's  throne  shall  shine 
In  mystic  glory  from  some  convent-shrine. 
And  on  the  seas,  when  stormy  winds  shall  whip 
The  waves  to  foam, — the  mariners,  afar, 
.Shall  trembling  hail  Our  Lady  of  the  Ship, 
And,  trusting,  call  on  ocean's  peerless  Star  ; 
Till,  rescued  from  the  treacherous  main,  secure, 
They  hang  ex-votos  'round  her  altars  pure  ! 

O  Liberatrix  of  a  captive  race  ! 

O  Mediatrix,  full  of  light  and  grace  ! 

In  all  our  woes  and  wants,  we  turn  to  thee, 

Lady  of  Faith,  of  Hope,  of  Charity  ! 

In  all  our  doubts,  unto  thy  shrine  we  haste, 

(O  Mother  of  Good  Counsel !    Virgin  chaste,) 

And  prostrate  there,  if  thou  dost  intercede, 

Find  all  the  light  and  comfort  that  we  need. 


Tho'  darkness  and  tho'  dangers  cloud  the  soul, 
Tho'  'round  our  breasts  the  bitter  waters  roll, 
Lady  of  Grace,  of  Pity,  and  of  Peace, — 
Succor  in  need,  and  Queen  of  Remedies, — 
We  gather  'round  thy  feet,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Libera  scandalis  /    we  implore, 
Lady  of  Consolation  !  stretch  thy  hand 
To  guide  our  flight  from  Sin's  Egyptian  land  ! 
—Like  the  strange  pillar  of  the  Israelite, 
A  shade  in  burning  noon,  a  fire  by  night, 
Thy  children  with  thy  presence  ever  bless, 
And  lead  us  safely  thro'  the  wilderness. 


The  while  thou  watchest  o'er  our  wand' ring  feet, 
Mother  of  Providence,  of  Mercy  sweet, 
Thy  holy  name  shall  be  as  oil  poured  out 
On  ev'ry  bleeding  wound  and  aching  doubt ; 
Till,  in  thy  Promised  Land,  each  cross  of  ours 
In  living  garlands  of  immortal  flowers, 
Shall  veil  itself, — refreshing  thee,  for  aye, 
With  bloom  and  perfume  that  shall  ne'er  decay ! 

Ah !  when,  at  last,  that  blessed  goal  is  won, 
And  the  long  rays  of  Life's  departing  sun 
Fall  on  those  holy  shrines,  and  cheer  our  eyes 
With  visions  of  thy  shrine  in  Paradise,— 


Ah !  stretch  to  us,  once  more,  thy  hand,  dear  Queen, 
And,  from  the  fair  heights  of  thy  throne  serene, 
Lead  up  our  souls  above  all  earthly  cares, 
O  Scala  Cceli  !    Lady  of  the  Stairs  ! 
Refuge  of  Sinners,  Safety  of  the  Wreck' d  ! 
Queen  of  the  Chosen  !     Crown  of  the  Elect ! 
Lead  up  thy  children  to  eternal  rest, 
In  thy  pure  mansions,  Domus  Dei  blest ! 


The  Heart  of  St.  Clare  of  Montefalco. 

y 

IVING,  she  fed  her  heart  upon  the  food 
„    Of  Christ's  dear  Passion; — brooded  night  and  day, 
Upon  the  Cross,  the  Nails,  the  Lance,  the  Blood, 

The  Thorns  which  crovvn'd  His  temples,  bruised  and 
gray. 

Dying,  they  found  within  her  heart,  wide-riven, 
The  symbols  of  that  Passion,  pure  and  fine, 

Sculptured  as  tho'  from  ivory, — great  Heaven  ! 
The  mystic  carving  of  a  Hand  Divine  ! 

The  Cross,  the  Nails,  the  Lance,  the  Crown  of  Thorns, 
The  Sponge  that  held  the  vinegar  and  gall, — 

The  passion-flower  treasures,  while  it  mourns, 
The  same  blest  symbols  in  its  calyx  small. 


O  Heart  of  Montefalco's  sainted  Clare  ! 

Thou  wert  the  Passion-Flower  of  our  Lord. 
For  in  thy  depths,  as  in  that  floweret  fair, 

The  emblems  of  His  love  and  grief  were  stored. 

Pray  for  us  then,  dear  Saint,  this  Passiontide, 
That,  while  our  hearts  take  root  in  Calvary's  sod, 

They,  there,  may  blossom,  shrines  of  the  Crucified, 
Sweet  Passion- Flowers  of  a  suffering  God  ! 


The  Humming-Bird  at  the  Chapel  Door. 


"N  opal  aglow  in  the  sunlight, 
,     Afloat  upon  emerald  wings, — 
One  of  the  daintiest  darlings 

Of  all  earth's  feathered  things  ; 
Into  each  chalice  of  coral, 

The  humming-bird  dives  to  the  core, 
Where  the  grail  of  the  red  honeysuckle, 

Flames  bright  at  the  chapel  door. 

II. 

Below,  where  the  acolyte-lilies 
Their  silv'ry  censers  uphold  ; 


Or,  out  where  the  woodbine  is  lifting 

Its  pale  candelabra  of  gold  ; 
From  the  fragrant  cathedral  of  Nature, 

Where  the  choirs  of  singing-birds  soar, 
This  sparkling,  aerial  creature 

Hath  flown  to  the  chapel-door. 

in. 

O  my  heart,  all  atremble  with  gladness, 

Cries  out  to  the  glittering  bird  : 
"  Float  in,  thro'  this  cross-hallow' d  portal, 

And  fly  to  the  throne  of  the  Word. 
Here  bloometh  the  Flower  of  flowers, 

The  Lily  of  valleys  divine, — 
O  humming-bird  !  taste  of  His  honey, 

And  glow,  like  a  gem,  on  His  shrine  !" 


Our  Lady  of  Good  Counsel  at  Genazzano. 

/M  VER  the  sea  from  Scutari, 
\|jjj     To  Genazzano  quaint  and  fair, 
In  the  mystic  glow  of  the  long  ago. 
Floated  a  picture  through  the  air. 

34 


A  picture  old  (with  a  rim  of  gold), 

Where  the  rarest  skill  of  the  Byzantine 

Had  softly  limned  on  a  fresco  dim 

The  Virgin  Queen  and  the  Babe  divine. 

(His  blessed  Face  in  her  close  embrace), 
She  held  the  Infant  firm  and  fast ; 

And,  fair  to  trace  in  their  tender  grace, 

The  arms  of  the  Child  were  'round  her  cast, 

While,  pure  and  pale  from  her  fringed  veil, 
The  lily-face  of  the  Mother  shone  : 

The  yellow  light  of  His  halo  bright 
Melting  and  mixing  with  her  own. 

Over  the  sea  from  Scutari, 

In  April  dusk,  in  April  dawn, 
Thro'  sunset  hues  and  morning  dews, 

(A  drifting  star,  when  stars  were  none)— 

By  viewless  hands  of  angel-bands 

Borne  safe  to  Genazzano  fair, 
Over  the  sea  from  Scutari, 

Floated  the  fresco  through  the  air. 

The  night  was  chill, — the  streets  were  still, 
The  picture  passed  thro'  the  little  town, 

At  twilight-fall,  o'er  the  broken  wall 
Of  an  ancient  chapel,  settling  down  ; 

35 


And  there  in  the  dawn  of  the  April  morn., 
The  wond'ring  people  saw  it  shine, 

Suspended  low  o'er  a  wall  of  snow, 

With  no  support  save  the  Hand  Divine  ! 

Pure  and  bright  as  the  orient  light, 
The  Maiden  Mother  and  her  Child, 

(Mysterious  borne  to  that  spot  forlorn), 
Over  the  holy  ruins  smiled  ! 

The  ruddy  flame  of  the  sunlight  came 
To  wrap  the  fresco  round  and  round, — 

"A  miracle  !  a  miracle  !" 
The  people  cried,  as  they  kiss'd  the  ground. 

And  there  they  knelt,  and  there  they  prayed, 

Around  the  Lady  of  the  air  ; 
And  day  by  day,  in  a  magic  way, 

A  shrine  majestic  builded  there  : 

Where,  high  in  space,  o'er  the  altar-place, 
(Its  wondrous  wand' rings  safely  ended), 

Serene  and  fair  in  the  upper  air, 

The  shining  picture  hung  suspended. 

The  curious  hand  might  pass  a  wand 

On  every  side,  above,  below, 
-All  unsustained,  on  its  height  remained 

The  image  none  might  name  or  know. 

36 


Till  a  stranger-priest  from  the  golden  East 

Told  of  a  fresco  fair  to  see, 
That  drifted  away,  one  April  day, 

From  the  wall  of  a  church  in  Scutari. 

A  star  of  peace  on  dark'ning  seas 

Where  storm-toss' d  ships  were  blindly  sailing  : 
-A  light  to  shoals  of  exiled  souls, 

A  pilgrim  Patroness  unfailing, 

Behold  !  they  named  her  as  she  sat, 

Her  Babe  upon  her  breast  of  snow, 
The  guardian  sweet  of  wand' ring  feet, 

Madre  del  Buon  Consiglio! 

O  Maid  Divine  !  in  far-off  shrine 

Beyond  the  rolling,  purple  sea, 
In  all  our  wand' rings  far  and  wide, 

Our  Mother  of  Good  Counsel  be  ! 

In  all  our  fears,  our  doubts,  our  tears, 

Our  nights  of  hopeless  bitterness, 
Be  thou  the  star  that  shines  afar 

To  gild  the  clouds  of  dark  distress  , 

And  o'er  the  sea,  O  Love  !  to  thee 

Our  pilgrim  hearts  shall  gladly  go, 
And,  grateful,  share  thy  tender  care, 

Madre  del  Buon  Consiglio  ! 

— FROM  "  Crowned  with  Stars. 
37 


My  God  and  My  All! 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  DISCOURSE  OF  HlS  GRACE, 

MOST  REV.  ARCHBISHOP  RYAN,  IN  THE  CONVENT-CHAPEL 

®F  THE  SACRED  HEART  OF  JESUS,  PHILADELPHIA, 

OCTOBER  20TH,  1884. 


tneus  et  oinnia.!'' — Sr.   FRANCIS  OF  Assist. 


I. 

FHE  bells  of  the  midnight  (like  blows  from  a  mallet 
On  time's  mighty  anvil),  ring  loud  thro'  the  gloom  ; 
The  Seraph  of  Umbria  quits  his  poor  pallet, 
And  rises  to  pray  in  his  dim-lighted  room. 

No  book  doth  he  need  save  the  skies  in  their  splendor, 
Outspreading  their  glittering  gospel  on  high  ; 

No  taper  is  his,  save  the  moon,  pure  and  tender, 
Which  bends  thro"  the  lattice  her' radiant  eye. 

' '  (9,  cceli  enarranl  gloriam  Dei  f ' 

The  voice  of  the  stars  to  the  Saint  seems  to  call, 
And  he  flings  forth  his  arms  in  a  rapture,  exclaiming, 

"  My  God  and  my  All  !     O  my  God  and  my  All  !" 

" My  God  !" — yea,  the  God  of  the  seas  and  the  mountains  ; 

"My  God  !" — yea,  the  God  of  the  great  and  the  small ; 
Of  the  hills  and  the  valleys,  the  fields  and  the  fountains, 

All-wise  and  almighty, — "My  God  and  my  All !" 


All  mine  to  adore  in  His  peerless  perfections ; 

To  bless  and  to  worship,  to  thank  and  to  praise  ; 
All  mine  to  embrace  with  my  purest  affections : 

To  love  and  to  fear  in  His  marvelous  ways. 

My  God  and  my  All !     O  my  Treasure  of  treasures, 

My  light  and  my  sweetness,,  my  strength  and  my  health; 

My  Honor  of  honors,  my  Pleasure  of  pleasures, 
My  crown  and  my  glory,  my  wisdom,  my  wealth ! 


ii. 

— On  pinions  celestial,  the  hours  are  fleeting ; 

Still  lingers  Saint  Francis  in  prayer's  golden  thrall, 
Thro'  all  the  long  night  never  weary  repeating, 

"  My  God  and  my  All  !     O  my  God  and  my  All  !" 

Dear  Saint  of  Assisi  !  ah  !  let  us  draw  near  thee, 
(All  worldly  and  woeful,  sin-stain' d  tho'  we  be), — 

Ah  !  let  us  creep  close  to  thy  side  ; — let  us  hear  thee 
Entoning  forever  Love's  grand  Ikany. 

For  surely  thine  eyes  at  this  moment  are  gazing 
Straight  into  the  Vision  of  God  on  His  throne  ; 

Ah  !  surely,  this  moment,  in  bliss,  thou  art  raising 

Those  hands  that  were  wounded  and  pierced,  like  His  own, 

39 


And  surely  some  sparks  from  those  wonderful  fires 
Which  burn  in  thy  breast,  on  our  coldness  must  fall, 

Till  our  souls  shall  flame  forth  in  ecstatic  desires 
To  echo  thine  anthem  :   "  My  God  and  my  All  !" 

Let  Sin,  like  a  Syren,  to  ruin  allure  us  : 

Let  Riches,  and  Honors,  and  Pleasures  assail, — 

Thy  voice  thro'  the  ages  shall  ever  assure  us 
There  is  but  One  Treasure  which  never  shall  fail. 

The  snares  of  the  senses,  the  world's  weary  fashions 
Shall  drop  from  our  souls,  like  a  worm-eaten  pall, 

But  Faith  shall  cry  out  in  the  hush  of  the  passions, 
"Laus  tibi  et  honor,  my  God  and  my  All  !' ' 


The  Trinity  in  the  Taper. 

O  !  the  while  the  candle  burns 
,    On  the  altar  fair  to  see, 
To  a  type  the  taper  turns 
Of  the  Blessed  Trinity. 

In  the  virgin  wax  we  view 

God  the  Father,  God  Creator  ; 

In  the  wick,  the  God-Man  true, 
Saviour,  Lord,  and  Mediator. 


From  the  wax  the  wick  proceeds ; 

From  the  Father,  living  Might, 
God  the  Son,  the  Word  proceeds, 

Wisdom,  perfect,  infinite. 

From  the  wax  and  wick  together 
Flows  the  flame — procession  meet ! 

From  the  glorious  Son  and  Father 
LOVE  proceeds,  the  Paraclete. 

So,  the  while  the  candle  burns 

On  the  altar  fair  to  see, — 
In  the  taper  Faith  discerns 

Symbols  of  the  Trinity. 

Three  in  One  ;  oh  !  hark,  and  hear  it ! 

Wax  and  wick  and  flame  decay, 
But  the  Father,  Son,  and  Spirit 

Live  adored  and  loved  for  aye  ! 


St.  Nicholas  and  the  Doves. 

i. 

IfuS  a  legend  of  the  past, 
51    (In  old  books  and  paintings  seen), 
Of  the  Augustinian  hermit, 
Nicholas  of  Tolentine ; 


How  within  his  cell  he  lay 
Once  upon  his  pallet  bare, 
With  a  mortal  sickness  on  him 
(Born  of  penance  and  of  prayer  ;) 
While  the  sunshine,  like  a  flame, 
Thro'  the  western  window  came. 


II. 

How  it  lit  his  wasted  cheek, 
With  the  glories  of  the  skies  ! 
Touched  his  pale,  ethereal  temples, 
Soft-illumed  his  lifted  eyes  ; 
And  a  halo  seemed  to  shed 
Round  the  tonsure  on  his  head  ! 


III. 

Till  he  cried  :  "  O  brothers  !  see, 
What  a  glorious  light  it  is  ! 
Jacob's  ladder,  thronged  with  angels, 
Must  have  been,  indeed,  like  this  ! 
For  the  bless6d  spirits  go 
Up  and  down,  with  constant  wing, 
With  their  tender  voices  calling 
And  their  white  hands  beckoning  J 
Ah  !  if  God  should  deem  it  best, 
I  would  fain  go  up  and  rest !" 


IV. 


But  the  Prior  said  :   "  Nay,  nay," 
(Bending  over  his  saintly  son), 
"  Thou  must  not  depart,  Nicolo, 
Till  thy  ministry  is  done. 
And  it  is  the  Master's  will 
(Now  thou  art  so  faint  and  ill), 
Thou  shouldst  for  a  time  relax 
Those  austerities  of  thine, 
Which  have  worn  thy  feeble  body, 
To  a  shadow, — son  of  mine  ! 
Therefore,  thro'   obedience, 
Thou. must  break  thine  abstinence." 


V. 


At  a  sign,  a  monk  appeared, 
Bearing  on  a  wooden  dish, 
Two  small  dbves  (a  feast  prepared 
Solely  at  the  Prior' s  wish) : 
And  the  good  Superior 
Turning  to  the  saint  once  more, 
Said  :   "  O  true  and  faithful  son  ! 
Make  thy  victory  complete  : 
Scorning  ev'ry  foolish  scruple, — 
Take,  and  through  obedience,  eat !" 

43 


VI. 

Nicholas  looked  up  and  smiled, 
Tranquil  as  a  little  child  : 

Took  with  outstretch' d  hand  the  doves 
(Roasted  at  the  Prior's  wish), 

And  serenely  made  the  symbol 
Of  the  cross  above  the  dish. 

VII. 

Lo  !  a  miracle  of  faith  ! 

Ere  the  monks  a  word  could  utter, 

They  beheld  the  little  creatures 

On  the  dish  begin  to  flutter, — 

Ope  their  eyes  and  stretch  their  wings, 
Happy,  shining,  living  things  ! 

VIII. 

Thro'  the  sunny  window  fell 

Ivy-shadows  on  the  floor  ; 
And  a  fragrance  from  the  garden 

Floated  thro'  the  open  door. 
It  was  spring-time  in  the  land, 

(Tender  grass  and  golden  mist), 
As  the  little  doves  exulting 

Settled  on  Nicole's  wrist  : 


Then,  up- soaring  thro'  the  air, 
While  the  hermit,  smiling,  lay, 
Round  his  bed  went  sailing,  sailing, 
In  a  graceful,  grateful  way. 
Till,  at  last,  (the  window  neared), 
Thro'  the  vines  they  disappeared  ! 


The  Things  of  God. 

'EARKEN  to  the  King  of  kings  : 
'y     "  Wouldst  thou  do  no  wrong, 
Render  unto  God  the  things 

That  to  God  belong, — 
GLORY,  JUDGMENT,  AND  REVENGE, 
These  to  Me  belong  ! 

"  Glory?      Naught  of  pride  should  lurk 

In  thy  flow' ring  ways  ; 
Naught  of  self  or  creatures  lurk 

In  thy  fruitful  days. 
Unto  man,  the  willing  work, 

Unto  God,  the  praise. 

"Judgment?  Who  art  thou,  indeed, 

Judging  free  and  foul  ? 
Only  One  alone  can  read 


Secrets  of  the  soul. 
To  the  Judge,  the  judgment  cede, 
He  will  right  the  whole. 

"Vengeance  ?"    Saith  the  Lord  :  '"Tis  Mine, 

My  behests  obey  ; 
Unto  Me  thy  cause  resign, — 

Kneel,  forgive,  and  pray. 
GLORY,  JUDGMENT,  and  REVENGE, 

These  are  Mine  for  aye  !' ' 


The  Blessed  Rita's  Bees. 

"The  miraculous  bees  of  the  Blessed  Rita,  which  are  yet  living  at  Cascia,  followed 
her  from  her  home  at  Rocca  Porena  to  the  Augus-tinian  convent  where  she  spent  the  last 
forty-five  years  of  her  life.  They  lookup  their  abode  close  to  her  cell,  over  the  door 
in  the  wall  opposite  it — midway,  now,  between  her  old  cell  and  her  tomb.  They  number 
twelve  or  fifteen,  as  at  first ;  live  a  solitary  life  ;  do  not  mate  with  any  of  their  species, 
and  only  appear  in  Holy  Week  of  each  year,  when  they  issue  from  their  cavities,  and 
remain  visible  until  the  feast  of  their  queen,  May  22d.  They  then  retire  again  to  their 
hermitages  in  the  wall.  Each  bee  has  its  own  little  retreat.  These  are  not  like  ordinary 
bee-combs,  but  are  long,  narrow  holes,  like  those  made  by  the  thrust  of  a  nail  (or  a 
thorn?).  On  retiring,  each  bee  closes  the  entrance  of  its  cell  with  a  delicate  white 
gossamer-like  web  or  membrane;  and  there  stays  in  solitude,  as  if  in  contemplation,  for 
the  rest  of  the  year.  They  do  not  die  or  increase  in  number,  and  are  not  known  to  eat. 
They  have  no  sting  and  no  mandibles,  and  do  not  break  the  cloister-silence  with  their 
hum.  They  are  veritable  anchorites.  One  of  them  was  sent,  by  special  request,  enclosed  in  a 
crystal  vase,  to  Pope  Urban  V11I.,  by  whom  Rita  of  Cascia  was  beatified  July  16,  1627, 
and  who  marveled  (it  is  quaintly  and  pleasantly  said)  at  the  significant  character  of  this 
new  Order  of  Augustinians.  The  bee  remained  with  the  Pontiff  one  day,  and  the 
next  morning,  disappeared.  On  inquiry,  it  was  found  snug  at  home  with  its  fellows,  at 
Cascia,  where  they  have  continued  undisturbed  ever  since." 

—  Very  Rev.  Dr.  Middleton,  OS  A. 

The  Augustinian  friar.  Rev.  John  Baptist  Cotta.  an  Italian  poet  of  note  (1668-1737), 
who  wrote  the  life  of  the  Blessed  Rita  in  verse,  has  caught  and  imprisoned  her  miraculous 
Bees  in  the  hive  of  his  own  graceful  imagination — and  refused  to  release  the  little  captives 
until  they  had  produced  the  honey  of  some  exquisite  lines,  of  which  the  following  art  a 
crude,  but  tolerably  faithful  translation  : 

46 


ID  Alpine  rocks  and  rugged  steeps, 
On  fruitful  Umbria's  frontier  fair, 
The  child  was  born  ;  her  life's  bright  day 
In  its  first  dawn,  a  presage  rare 
Of  what  the  ripened  sanctity 
Of  its  pure  noon  and  night  might  be. 

For  snow-white  bees,  a  swarm  unknown, 

Thronged  in  and  out  her  cradle-bed  : 
And  in  the  sleeping  baby's  mouth 
Their  nectar  sweet  deposited. 

(As  chanced  to  Ambrose,  once  of  old, 
And  to  Chrysostom,  mouth  of  gold.) 

Behold  !  with  dulcet  murmurs  there, 

The  bees  to  Rita  whispered  low 
Of  that  pure  Queen,  that  Lady  fair, 

Whose  sweetness  ev'ry  soul  doth  know  ; 
Who  gave  to  us  the  King  of  Kings, 
From  whom  all  heavenly  sweetness  springs  ! 

Nor  was  it  vain,  that  prophecy  ; 

In  days  to  come,  with  honeyed  tones, 
Young  Rita's  gracious  piety 

To  heaven  drew  unwilling  ones  ; 

And  rough  and  stubborn  souls  entic'd 
To  meekly  "yield  themselves  to  Christ. 


And  still  she  draws  them  by  her  bees, 

(O  strange,  enduring  miracle  !) 
Those  tiny  winged  votaries 

Beside  her  tomb,  forever  dwell  ; 
Enshrined  in  Cascia's  convent-wall, 
A  prodigy  perennial  ! 

If  e'er  ensnared  by  chance  surprise, 
They  ne'er  a  vengeful  rage  assert ; 
But,  by  the  nuns,  like  harmless  flies, 
Are  harbored  without  fear  or  hurt. 

Meek  creatures  !  there  they  fold  the  wing, 
And  know  no  rancor,  bear  no  sting. 

— Ave  Maria. 


"Saints  know  thee  best,  O  hidden,  silent  Saint ! 
And  would  that  I  could  feel  a  little  part 
Of  that  great  love  Teresa's  kindred  heart 
Felt  for  thee,  Foster-Father !"  * 

'  LEST  was  thine  office,  bearer  of  the  seal 

'     Of  the  Celestial  Bridegroom  !     Close-allied 

To  thee — from  all,  save  thee, — thy  Maiden  Bride 
Her  first  Divine  Espousals  could  conceal. 


*  Rev.  Matth'ew  Russell,  S.  J.,  in  St.  Joseph's  Anthology. 
48 


— The  FATHER'S  mirror,  fashioned  to  reveal 

His  own  grand  virginal  Paternity,— 
Around  thy  shrine,  this  Lenten  March,  we  kneel, 

And  Christ's  dear  Foster- Father  hail  in  thee  ! 

Guardian  of  Bethlehem  and  Nazareth  ! 

Guide,  thro'  the  desert,  out  of  Egypt's  land  ! 

In  faith  and  love,  we  clasp  thy  guardian  hand, 
And  choose  thee  for  our  guide  in  life  and  death. 

O  sweet  Saint  Joseph,  pray,  that,  franchised  and  forgiven. 

We  all  may  share,  one  day,  thy  changeless  bliss  in  heaven! 


Quam   Dilecta. 

"  The  sparrow  hath  found  her  a  house  ;  and  the  turtle  a  nest  for 
herself,  where  she  may  lay  her  young. 

Even  Thy  altars,  O  Lord  of  hosts  ;  my  King  and  my  God." 

MOW  sweetly  falls  upon  the  noisy  world 
The  calm,  still  Sabbath  of  the  living  God  ! 
The  ceaseless  hum  of  many  multitudes 
Is  hush'd  ;  and  Peace  bends  smiling  over  all : 
Or,  by  her  chiming  bells,  beseeches  man 
To  consecrate  the  day  to  God  and  prayer. 
The  sunlight  sleeps  upon  the  quiet  town  : 
And  in  its  beams  rise  many  a  marble  dome, 


49 


Which  man  with  busy  hand  but  prayerful  heart, 
Hath  reared  and  sanctified  with  hallow' d  hopes — 
That  in  their  shade  his  soul  and  knee  might  bow 
Before  the  altar  of  the  Holy  One. 

Father  !  we  thank  Thee,  that  Thy  wisdom  framed 

One  little  day  when  all  might  praise  Thy  name  ; 

One  green  oasis  in  the  barren  week, 

When  fleeing  from  the  crowded,  busy  world, 

With  all  its  rush,  its  din,  and  weary  cares, 

We,  to  Thy  peaceful  temples,  then  might  turn, 

And  in  their  hallowed  hush  kneel  gladly  down  ; 

Whilst,  rich  and  low,  steals  forth  the  organ's  tone, 

And  holy  priest,  mysteriously  clad, 

With  bended  head  and  gently-murmuring  voice, 

Renews  the  Eucharistic  Sacrifice. 

Oh  !  it  is  bliss  untold,  thus,  thus,  to  kneel 

'Mid  twinkling  lights  and  perfume  breathing  flowers, 

And  gaze  upon  Our  Saviour's  altar-throne  ; 

Or  on  the  figure  of  the  Virgin  Queen, 

Which,  thro'  the  misty  incense,  smiling  gleams, 

Celestial  beauty  on  the  sculptured  face. 

This  is  the  happiness  of  Sabbath  hours : 

A  calm,  deep  joy,  above  all  earthly  bliss  ; 

When  man's  weak  soul,  borne  up  on  wings  of  prayer. 

Soars  to  the  presence  of  the  Deity. 


Alter  Christus. 


AN    ORDINATION    ODE. 


"There  is  no  language  which  can  express   the   dignity  of  a 
priest.     He  is  'Alter  Christus.'  " — CARDINAL  MANNING. 


LTER  CHRISTUS!  meek  and  lowly, 

Pure  and  true — O  virgin  dreamer  ! 
Thou  art  made  a  mirror  holy 

Of  the  dear  divine  Redeemer. 
Through  thy  flesh  His  spirit  shineth, 

T^ike  a  flame  thro'  alabaster  ; 
Every  lineament  outlineth 

Some  fresh  beauty  of  thy  Master. 

Alter  Christus  !     Sing  Te  Dcum, 

Ere  thou  breathest  at  the  altar, 
' '  Hoc  est  enim  Corpus  meuin  f ' 

— Words  which  never  fail  or  falter  ! 
Called  and  chosen,  heaven-appointed, 

On  thy  lip  the  liquid  Latin — 
Thine  to  lift,  (the  Lord's  anointed), 

Sacred  chalice,  bless' d  paten. 


Alter  Christus  !  thine  to  offer, 

Like  Melchisedech,  the  mystic, 
Bread  and  wine, — yea,  more,  to  proffer, 

Christ,  the  Victim  Eucharistic, 
Christ,  the  Lamb.      Foreshown  by  prophets, 

And  by  priests  of  by-gone  ages, — 
Lo  !  the  glory  of  thine  office 

Far  outshines  all  kings'  and  sages' ! 


Alter  Christus  !     Stoled  and  vested, — 

Font  baptismal,  screen  of  Penance, 
Pulpit,  death-bed,  ma.rna.ge-/esfa, 

Bier  and  grave,  with  ghostly  tenants, 
Claim  thy  ministry  ;   the  olden 

Key  is  in  thy  grasp  immortal  : 
Key,  which,  (to  the  City  Golden), 

Opes  the  glorious  shining  portal ! 


Alter  Christus  /   rays  of  lustre, 

(Born  of  altar-tapers  tender), 
Crown  thy  brow.      Around  thee  cluster 

Angel-shapes  with  wings  of  splendor. 
Thou  to  lead,  to  cheer,  to  bless  us, 

Thro'  Life's  desert-waste,  like  Moses, 
Priest  and  Father  !     Alter  Christus  ! 

Be  our  guide  till  Heav'n  uncloses. 


Consecration. 

HEN  softly  dawns  the  golden  light, 

And  shadows  melt  o'er  land  and  sea, 
O  sweet  and  sacred  Heart  of  Christ, 

We  consecrate  our  souls  to  Thee! 
Before  Thine  altar's  holy  throne, 

The  while  we  humbly  kneel  and  pray, 
We  bring  to  Thee — to  Thee  alone — 

The  off 'ring  of  the  new-born  day. 

When  all  the  day  of  toil  is  done, 

And  twilight  spreads  her  purple  wing- 
When  starry  vigils  have  begun 

Before  the  Eucharistic  King. 
As  ardent  lovers  at  the  tryst, 

Impassion'd,  to  the  lov'd  one  flee, — 
O  true  and  tender  Heart  of  Christ, 

We  haste  to  give  the  night  to  Thee  ! 

In  joy  or  grief,  in  hope  or  fear, 

In  sin,  in  suff'ring,  and  distress, 
Behold  a  Refuge  ever  near, 

To  heal,  to  comfort,  and  to  bless. 
In  light  or  darkness,  life  and  death, 

In  Time  and  in  Eternity, 
Devoted  Heart,  with  trusting  faith, 

We  consecrate  our  all  to  Thee  ! 

53 


Made  Manifest. 


HOW  me, ' '  the  friar  prayed  with  purpose  pure, 
"  O  Bless' d  Master  !     Show  to  me  the  way 

Wherein  the  ancient  fathers  walked  secure, 
And  did  Thy  perfect  will  by  night  and  day!" 

II. 
In  dreams,  the  answer  came.     There  seemed  to  fall 

A  golden-lettered  book  upon  his  bed  ; 
"  Arise  and  read!"  he  heard  a  shrill  voice  call, 

And,  on  the  instant,  rising  up,  he  read  : 

in. 
' '  The  ancient  fathers,  loving  God  the  Lord, 

Despised  themselves,  and  judgment  pass'  d  on  none; 
So  were  t/iey  perfect  men  in  deed  and  word, ' ' 

— And  lo !  the  book  was  gone,  the  dream  was  done. 


The  Angel  of  God's  Will. 

"T  the  gate  an  angel  lingers, 
,     (Narrow  Gate  that  leads  to  Life), 
Bearing  in  his  shining  fingers, 
Elements  of  peace  or  strife  : 


Elements  of  bliss  or  anguish — 
Fortunes  like  a  clouded  star, 

Hopes  that  blossom,  hopes  that  languish, 
In  that  angel's  keeping,  are. 

And  he  standeth  at  the  portal, 
Standeth  veiled  and  silent,  till 

Each  expectant,  anxious  mortal, 
Comes  to  claim  his  good  or  ill. 

Tired  feet  and  faces  ever 

Meet  the  angel  at  the  goal, — 

For  the  strife  of  strong  endeavor 
Pales  the  cheek  and  sinks  the  soul. 

Lighter  steps  and  brighter  faces 
Leave  the  veiled  spirit  there — 

He  hath  hidden  gifts  and  graces      ' 
In  the  mystic  lot  they  bear. 

Some,  who  gather  joy  and  blessing, 
(With  the  cheek  and  lip  a -glow), 

Linger  not,  but  onward  pressing, 
Sing  Tc  Deum,  as  they  go. 

Others,  yea,  the  meek  and  lowly, 
Hearts  that  have  but  lived  to  brave 

Heavy  sorrows,  burdens  holy. 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave  ; 


Bowing  there  to  painful  duty, 
With  a  loving,  trusting  soul, — 

Journey  forth  in  strength  and  beauty, 
For  their  faith  hath  made  them  whole. 


O  thou  Joy  akin  to  heaven  ! 

O  thou  patient  Misery  ! 
Both  with  tend' rest  blessing  given 

From  our  Father's  treasury  ; 


We  shall  never  cease  to  wonder 
At  your  strange  and  potent  sway, 

Till  the  skies  are  rent  asunder, 
And  the  earth  shall  pass  away  ! 


In  that  dread  and  awful  season, 
(When  the  Mortal  hath  no  power), 

We  shall  know  the  hidden  reason 
Of  each  glad  or  darksome  hour. 


Then  the  veil  will  be  uplifted, 
And  our  strengthen' d  vision  see, 

How  the  holy  and  the  gifted 
Bore  and  bless' d  their  misery. 


And  the  Angel  of  the  portal, 

Donor  of  our  joy  or  care, 
In  a  beauty  more  than  mortal, 

Will  embrace  and  crown  us  there  ! 


The  Friar's  Prayer. 

ANCTUS  !  Sanctus  !  Sanctus.'"—  sing 

Heaven's  choirs  before  the  King, 
Holy  !  Holy  !  Holy  !  Lord 
God  of  Sabbaoth  adored  ! 
By  Thy  mercy,  by  Thy  might, 
Make  me  holy  in  Thy  sight. 

"  Be  y e  perfect, ' '  (words  of  bliss  !) 
"  As  your  Heavenly  Father  is  !" 
All  Perfection's  golden  crown, 
Heart  and  knee  to  Thee  bow  down  ; 
Thro'  Thy  sweetness,  thro'  Thy  light, 
Make  me  perfect  in  Thy  sight. 

Pure  and  perfect, — crystal-clear — 
Let  my  soul  to  Thee  appear. 
Pure  in  heart,  and  flesh,  and  mind  ; 
Thought  and  word  and  deed  refined. 
— Source  and  fount  of  Purity  ! 
Make  and  keep  me  pure  in  Thee. 


Voluntas  Mea  in  Ea. 


God  saw  a  specialty  in  us  eternally.  It  was  this  specialty  which  He  loved.  It  is  this 
specialty  which  decides  our  place  and  work  in  His  creation.  .  .  .  No  matter  what 
our  position  in  life  may  be,  no  matter  how  ordinary  our  duties  may  seem,  no  matter  how 
commonplace  the  aspect  of  our  circumstances,  we  each  of  us  have  this  grand  secret  voca 
tion.  We  are,  in  a  certain  inaccurate  and  loving  stnse,  necessary  to  God.  He  wants  us, 
in  order  to  carry  out  His  plans,  and  nobody  else  will  quite  do  instead  of  us.  Here  is  our 
dignity;  here,  also,  is  our  duty.  This  is  the  deep  fountain  of  our  love;  this,  also,  is  the 
deep  fountain  of  our  fear. — Father  Fader. 


I EEP  in  the  radiant  vast  abyss, 
'     Of  God's  sublime  decrees, 
Shrined  in  the  rapture  and  the  bliss 

Of  His  wise  mysteries, — 
Hath  lain  from  all  eternity 

A  special,  sweet  design, 
Which  He  hath  willed,  in  time,  should  be 

Wrought  by  this  soul  of  mine. 

II. 

Clear  and  distinct,  as  some  fair  star 

On  Night's  mysterious  crest, 
For  ages  it  hath  shone  afar, 

From  out  His  mighty  breast  ; 
And  none  save  me  can  e'er  fulfil 

That  one  sweet,  strange  design  : 
And  none  save  me  can  do  that  Will, 

So  special,  so  divine  ! 


III. 
O  dear,  bewild'ring  specialty  ! 

How  do  my  pulses  thrill 
To  think  that  God  hath  chosen  me 

To  work  His  sovereign  Will  ! 
Blest  part  of  one  harmonious  Whole, 

(As  prophet-lips  aver), 
His  title  for  the  faithful  soul 

Shall  be,  "  My  Will  in  her!" 

IV. 

Dost  grasp,  my  heart,  this  wondrous  truth  ?- 

This  life-work  to  be  done 
Can  never  be  the  task,  forsooth, 

Of  mute  automaton  ; 
Nor  must  it  know  the  cold  constraint 

Which  marks  the  fettered  slave, 
But  the  filial  service  of  the  saint, 

Free,  loving,  glad,  and  brave  ! 

v. 
O  Lord  !  adoring,  lo  !  I  bless 

Thy  special  Will  in  me  : 
With  generous  devotedness 

I  yield  myself  to  Thee  ; 
To  Thee,  I  bring  this  heart  of  mine, 

Grant  it,  through  good  or  ill, 
Never  to  mar  Thy  dear  design, 

Nor  thwart  Thy  blessed  Will  ! 


Love's  Tabernacle. 

NEVER  see  at  holy  Mass, 

Or  after  Benediction's  chime, 
The  Taberriacle-door  unclasp' d, 

And  open  for  a  little  time  : 
But  it  doth  image  to  my  heart, 

That  little  room,  that  sacred  spot, 
Where  Jesus  loved  to  dwell  apart, 

In  Joseph's  humble  cot. 

Blest  room,  at  Naz'reth  far  away  ! 

By  Mary's  fingers  cleansed  and  swept, — 
(Where  Jesus  wrought  or  read  by  day, 

And,  in  the  night-time,  prayed  and  wept :) 
It  was  a  type,  that  chamber  poor, 

By  Christ's  sweet  presence  all  endear' d, — 
Of  ev'ry  tabernacle  pure, 

On  Christian  altars  reared. 

And,  (more  than  all)  it  was  a  type 

Of  these  poor  hearts  we  call  our  own, 
Wherein,  if  all  be  pure  and  bright, 

Our  Lord  delights  to  dwell  alone. 
Then,  let  us  beg  our  Mother  kind, 

To  cleanse  our  hearts  in  life,  in  death, — 
That  Jesus,  there,  may  ever  find 

His  Love's  sweet  Nazareth  ! 


A  Comforting  Paradox. 

'OU'VE  done  your  best, — and,  still,  success, 

That  best,  has  failed  to  crown  ; 
Tho'  disappointment  breed  distress, 

Yet  do  not  be  cast  down. 

He  who  succeeds,  succeeds  to  fail, 
If  Heav'n  should  curse,  not  bless  ; 

While  Man's  worst  failures  sometimes  veil 
GOD'S  most  sublime  Success. 


At  the  End. 

i. 

i  HEN  the  end  of  all  things  comes, 
What  will  gold  or  greed  avail  ? 
What  are  gems  and  royal  raiment 
To  a  dead  man,  stark  and  pakj  ? 
Hath  a  corpse  its  place  at  banquets  ? 

Canst  thou  flush  its  cheek  with  wine  ? 
Canst  thou  lead  it  through  the  dances, 
With  its  blank  eyes  fixed  on  thine? 
Gold  and  treasure, 
Pomp  and  pleasure, 
Pass  like  smoke  ;  but  muffled  drums, 

Beat  a  sad.  funereal  measure, 
When  the  end  of  all  things  comes. 

61 


II. 

When  the  end  of  all  things  comes, 

Where  will  Honor  be,  and  Fame? 
In  a  dead  man's  ear,  indifferent, 

Thou  canst  utter  praise  or  blamr. 
Though  the  trumpets  blare  his  triumphs, 

Though  the  bards  his  deeds  rehearse, 
Crown  a  grinning-  skull  with  flowers, 

It  will  only  grin  the  worse. 
Honor,  glory, 
Song  and  story, 
Mock  the  heart  which  Death  benumbs  ; 

Ponder  well,  "Memento  nwri!" 
Ere  the  end  of  all  things  comes. 


A  Midsummer  Moral. 

IS  not,  they  say,  from  choicest  flowers 
That  bees  distil  their  largest  store  : 

The  royal  rose  and  lily-bowers 

Yield  nectar  scarce  as  precious  ore. 

But  full  the  feast  on  clover-bloom, 
Rosemary  sweeter  than  sublime  ; 

The  honey  brims  the  moorland-broom, 
Meek  marjoram,  and  fairy  thyme. 


E'en  thus,  ye  naughty  peers  of  earth, 
\Yith  regal  pomp  and  prestige  crown' d, 

Your  garish  dearth  of  native  worth 
Doth  oft  your  satellites  confound. 

While  little  fragrant  words  and  deeds 
Of  humble  hearts,  of  spirits  sunny, 

Supply  with  ease  to  God's  glad  bees 
A  wondrous  wealth  of  golden  honey. 


When,  Where,  and  How? 

[EAR  Lord  !  in  some  dim,  future  year, 
1     In  some  dim,  future  month  and  day, 
Abides  the  hour,  the  solemn  hour, 

When  Thou  shall  call  my  soul  away ; 
That  year,  that  month,  that  day  of  days 

Come  soon  ?  come  late  ? — I  know  not  when  ; 
O  Thou,  who  rulest  all  my  ways  ! 
Master  of  life,  whom  Death  obeys, 
Be  with  me  then,  be  with  me  then  ! 

Somewhere  upon  this  globe  of  ours 
Is  hid  the  spot  where  I  must  die  ; 

Where  'mid  the  snows,  or  'mid  the  flowers, 
My  shrouded  form  shall  coffin' d  lie  ; 

If  north  or  south  ?  If  east  or  west  ? 

At  home  ?  abroad  ? — I  know  not  where  ; 


O  tender  Father,  Lord  of  grace  ! 
Whose  presence  fills  the  realms  of  space, 
Be  with  me  there,  be  with  me  there  ! 

By  fire  ?  by  flood  ?  by  famine  sore  ? 

By  sudden  stroke  ?  by  slow  decay  ? — 
When  Death's  dark  angel  opes  my  door, 

How  shall  it  call  my  soul  away  ? 
God  only  knows  ;   HE  bends  the  bow, 

And  He  alone  can  fix  the  dart ; 
Yet  care  I  not  when,  where,  or  how 
The  end  may  come,  sweet  Lord  !  if  Thou 

Wilt  then  but  shield  me  in  Thy  Heart  ! 


What  Doth  it  Profit  a  Man? 

'VE  traversed  worlds,  both  new  and  old, 

And  streams  and  seas  and  oceans  cross' d, 
Beneath  the  Juggernaut  of  Gold, 

To  fling  myself — a  holocaust. 
Thro'  all  my  frame,  I've  felt  the  thrills 

Of  that  great  glittering  Car  ;  but  high 
Above  the  roar  of  jewel' d  wheels, 
I  heard  a  Voice,  forever,  cry  : 

' '  The  gold  that  is  not  sought  in  Me, 
That  is  not  stored  or  spent  for  Me, 
Is  lost  for  all  eternity  /' ' 


Unheeding  those  rebuking  tones  : 

I,  straightway,  sought  the  lists  of  Fame  ; 
And,  'mid  her  proud,  ambitious  sons, 

I  jousted  for  a  prize — a  name  ! 
With  triumph  flushed — the  victor's  crown 

Was  won  ;  but  lo  !  in  passing  by 
The  cheering  hinds,  who  hailed  Renown, 
I  heard,  once  more,  that  awful  cry  : 

' '  The  fame  that  is  not  based  on  Me, 
The  glory  sought  apart  from  Me, 
Are  lost  for  all  eternity  /' ' 


Mad  with  a  fear  that  mastered  Fame, 

I  cast  away  my  broken  lance  ; 
And  (be  it  spoken  to  my  shame), 

I,  reckless,  plunged  in  Pleasure's  haunts. 
In  banquet  bright,  in  song  and  sport, 

I  bade  the  festal  hours  fly, 
But,  day  and  night,  thro'  Folly's  court, 
Forever,  rang  that  vengeful  cry  : 
' '  The  joy  that  is  not  born  of  Me, 
False  fame,  and  fatal  gold — all  three, 
Are  lost — lost — lost — eternally  /" 


Adauge  Nobis  Fidem. 


'WAS  well  with  that  good  French  artisan 

Who  could  kneel  by  the  hour  before  the  Host, 
(Breathing  no  prayer  like  a  workingman, 

But  silently  filled  with  the  Holy  Ghost)— 
When  he  urged  on  the  Cure  d'Ars  his  plea  : 
"  I  treat  with  Him,  and  He  treats  with  me  !" 

n. 

" 1 'treat  with  Him,  and  He  treats  with  me  /" 
— -Breath  of  a  flower-bed,  sweet  as  honey  ! 

Surely  such  childlike  hearts  must  be 

Our  Lord's  own  gardens,  fair  and  sunny  ; 

Where,  entering  in,  He  finds  repose 

From  the  wild  pursuit  of  His  brutal  foes  ! 

in. 

Grant  us,  dear  Christ,  the  love  and  trust 

Of  this  rude,  unletter'd  artisan  ; 
Make  us  believe  with  a  faith  robust, 

Thou  art  here  on  our  altars,  God  and  Man  ; 
And  the  barrenest  heart  in  our  midst  shall  be 
A  bower  of  beauty  to  comfort  Thee  ! 


The  Sea  hath  its  Stars. 

'HE  sea  hath  its  stars  as  well  as  the  sky, 
The  lamps  at  many  a  mast-head  glow, 
For,  out  where  the  pillows  moan  and  sigh, 
The  spirit-like  vessels  come  and  go. 

High  on  the  grand  pavilion's  height 
The  band  is  playing  a  tender  tune  ; — 

Far  o'er  the  sand  and  the  sea  to-night, 
Trembles  the  light  of  the  summer  moon. 

And  ever,  anon,  as  its  splendor  trails 

Where  the  ocean  mirrors  its  silver  beam, 

My  gaze  goes  forth  to  the  distant  sails, 

Where  the  twinkling  lamps  at  the  mast-head  gleam; 

And  my  heart  cries  out :    "  O  gems  of  the  sea  ! 

So  like  the  stars  that  above  us  bloom, 
O  stars  of  the  sea  !  ye  seem  to  me 

Like  beacons  of  hope  in  a  world  of  gloom  ; 

"The  shadows  may  come,  and  the  day -beams  go, 
The  clouds  of  sorrow  may  wrap  us  about, 

God's  stars  above,  Hope's  stars  below — 

O  brothers  !  what  heart  could  despair  or  doubt  ?" 


In  Eternal  Peace. 


VERY    REV.    DR.    MORIARTY,    O.S.A. 
JULY  IOTH,  1875. 


LOOKED  from  my  lattice  when  twilight  was  falling. 
And  saw  in  the  heavens  one  beautiful  star, 

That  hung,  like  a  tear  from  the  eye  of  an  angel, 
Alone  in  the  blue  of  the  zenith  afar. 

But  e'en  as  I  hailed  it,  and  blessed  its  pure  light, 

The  clouds,  closing  'round  it,  obscured  it  from  sight. 

Serene  thro'  my  chamber,  a  whisper  was  wafted  : 
"Beyond  its  dark  curtain,  the  star  shines  the  same  ; 

Tho'  mortals  behold  not  the  light  of  its  lustre, 
The  angels  rejoice  in  its  radiant  flame. 

So  shineth  behind  the  dark  curtain  of  Death, 

The  soul  of  the  saint  who  hath  triumphed  in  faith  !" 


Oh  !  blest  be  that  symbol  of  grandeur  departed, 
That  type  of  a  glory  untouched  by  the  tomb  ! 

Tho'  clouds  close  around  thee,  O  great  Moriarty  ! 
Thy  soul  is  the  star  that  surmounteth  the  gloom. 

And  far  o'er  the  shadows  that  curtain  thy  dust, 

Thou  livest,  thou  shinest  with  God  and  the  just  ! 

68 


Our  Faith  Our  Dearest  Treasure. 


[Many  of  our  little  readers  know  that  an  acrostic   is 


a  poem  in  which  the  initial  letters 


ciiviueu  til  aeacn ;    lur    raiiicr    jnariicii   cusu  ai    i  awrence.    iiiass.,    man 
Father  Ambrose,  at  Andover,  in  the  same  State,  July  7,  1876.     K.  I.  P.] 


Fond  and  consoling  is  the  Christian's  belieF, 
A  potent  charm  in  Life's  bewildering  dram  A  ; 
The  sacred  power  which  maketh  Maruh  sweeT, 
Hushes  the  wailing  wretchedness  of  RamaH  ; — 
Ever  the  same,  though  storms  or  sunshine  HE 
Round  the  rude  path  that  leadeth  to  Our  FatheR. 
An  angel  calls, — and  we,  too  weak  to  folio W, 
Moan  with  our  dying  Lord,  " Eloi !  Elo\  !" 
But  'tis  a  passing  weakness,  and  the  wilL, 
Ready  to  conquer,  bids  all  trembling  fears  be  stilL. 
O  joy  !  to  have  our  God,  our  great  Elo\, 
So  far  above  all  other  nations', — ye  A, 
E'en  as  the  reality  is  to  the  drcaM. 
A  God  to  save,  a  God  to  us  most  nigH  ! 
May  hearts  and  lips  send  forth  their  glad  Hosannk. 
Unto  this  Lord,  this  Chief,  whose  glorious  banneR, 
Like  some  strong  magnet,  draws  exultant  meN 
Lost  to  the  world,  to  earth's  enchanting  scenE, 
Ever  to  dwell  with  Thee,  O  God!  in  rapture  sweeT, 
Never  to  quit  again  Thy  sacred,  wounded  feeT. 


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